


Instruction

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: DISPATCH BOX [19]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 13:01:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7223353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“My darling,” I whispered as we paused. “What on earth are you up to?” I wondered. “What have you got behind your back?”</p>
<p>“Oh, John,” he murmured back, kissing my face and neck until I was quite ready to remove all of my attire as well, “I have been… that is… wishing for something.”</p>
<p>In this extremely descriptive document from Doctor Watson’s dispatch box, John proves that he is an avid pupil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Instruction

I had been considering it for ages, but I had just not found it the right time, or one of us was tired, or both of us were working, or I had toothache, or any of the thousands of excuses I could fabricate to excuse my hesitance and delay.  
  
The truth was that I was contemplating doing something new and different and I was, to be honest, not sure that I wished to—no, I did wish to, but what if it went horribly? What if I coughed or sneezed? What if my methods were not stimulating? What if I did something wrong and injured him? What if I found it repulsive and spat it out? What if I gagged or was sick?  
  
What if I simply did not succeed in making him feel as lovely as he made me feel?  
  
For now, after our first few tries, Sherlock had expressed rather passionately that he very much enjoyed bringing me to my release with his mouth and wished to do so much more often. I am nothing if not supportive of his desires, and so I agreed, wholeheartedly.  
  
That he often raised me to such dizzying heights that my legs would go numb and I could do nothing afterward but lie next to him on the bed and attempt to breathe—well, that was a sacrifice I was willing to make.  
  
But I truly did want to make him feel that lovely, if I possibly could.  
  
I tried, using his methods, to _observe_ what he was doing to me more closely, in the hopes of mimicking his actions. The problem was that the more there was to observe, the more my capacity to do so was diminished. In other words, I could not think straight.  
  
After a few attempts at applying his methods of observation (perhaps more than a few; I am an eager student), I had not seemed to progress overmuch. Besides, I realised, what was pleasurable to me might not be his preference. We had already discovered that we had different predilections when it came to using our hands upon one another. That took us a while to work out—even with both of us being quite dedicated to the task. It was important to prove our theories via experimentation, and to verify that our results could be replicated, he explained—as he cajoled me awake with the firm strokes that I preferred and I would reciprocate with the more delicate touches and rubbing that he adored.  
  
[There is a break in the manuscript adorned with Sherlock’s notation: _John got very distracted at this point. He is truly a dedicated scientist and insisted that we repeat our experiments—right that very moment. I am nothing if not supportive in developing—_ The note ends abruptly, and when the text is taken up again, it is the doctor’s firm handwriting.]  
  
Sherlock talks far too much and thinks far too much, so I took him back to bed to teach him a lesson in self-control.  
  
[There is another break and the following was clearly written at another time, as the nib of the doctor’s pen had developed a defect that caused it to splatter.]  
  
We have gotten quite distracted—first by each other, and then by a case, and then poor Sherlock was quite ill, but things have settled down now. So, where was I?  
  
Ah. Yes.   
  
My hesitance to perform—  
  
*  
  
“I once learned—I do not recall where or when—that hundreds of years ago, rabbis began to greet their new students with a touch of honey on their tongues, so that they would understand that learning was sweet.”  
  
“Oh?” I remarked, not paying a great deal of attention to him. I was engrossed in my newspaper and just dimly aware that Mrs. Hudson had brought up the tea tray. I did not hear him cross the room until the loud retort of the door to the hallway being locked startled me. “What are you doing?” I demanded as with a few long strides he reached the windows and jerked the curtains closed.  
  
“Making learning sweet,” he replied with what I can only describe as a mischievous grin.  
  
I had lowered my newspaper to observe him, and now I raised it again, shaking my head. “Mad man,” I muttered, finding my place in the column. I engrossed myself in my reading again, so I was only dimly aware that he had walked past the dining table and moved to his chair, which sat across from mine. He had been wandering around wearing just trousers and an unbuttoned shirt—with his braces under his shirt, over his bare shoulders (and why I was reading the newspaper with such intensity whilst he was traipsing about the flat like that I now cannot fathom). He rustled around, doing something.  
  
“John,” he said softly, and God help me, I pretended that I did not hear him.  
  
“John,” he repeated, a bit louder. I ruffled my newspaper, raising it even higher in front of my eyes.  
  
“Why on earth did you close the curtains?” I demanded. “I can barely read now.”  
  
“John!” he shouted.  
  
I lowered my newspaper. “What?” I shouted back. And then my mouth fell open and my eyes opened wide in the dim light.  
  
He was quite bare, standing in front of me, every inch of his exquisite, ivory skin on display for me. He smiled bashfully. “There you are,” he commented shyly.  
  
“What in heaven’s name are you doing?” I managed. I have no idea if I was still holding my newspaper.  
  
“Preparing to instruct you,” he replied mysteriously, and I noticed that he held something behind himself.  
  
“What do you have there?” I inquired.  
  
“Come find out.”  
  
I needed no further invitation. I nearly tripped over the newspaper (I had apparently dropped it) but stepped firmly on and over it and in two steps was up against him. “What are you doing?” I repeated in a soft voice. “May I kiss you?”  
  
He nodded, and I took his head in my hands and carefully brought his face down to mine. At first, I bestowed upon him the lightest of kisses—just brushing my lips against his. His lips tasted of something. I touched the tip of my tongue against his lower lip, then encouraged him to part his lips and I was able to taste him…  
  
“Honey,” I murmured, drawing back for a second. His eyes glinted and he nodded, then licked his own lips. The sight of the tip of his tongue as it peeked out was irresistible, and I once again leaned forward.  
  
Kissing Sherlock is like eating the sweetest, smoothest Italian cream you can imagine. Sometimes, when he has been working too hard and not taking in any nourishment, his lips become rough and dry, but now, they were soft and smooth. We kissed and we kissed, and I pressed my clothed body up against his bare one.  
  
“My darling,” I whispered as we paused. “What on earth are you up to?” I wondered. “What have you got behind your back?”  
  
“Oh, John,” he murmured back, kissing my face and neck until I was quite ready to remove all of my attire as well, “I have been… that is… wishing for something.”  
  
“What have you been wishing for, my love?” I kissed his lovely neck in return, running my hands along his broad shoulders and down the taut skin of his chest. He shuddered as my thumbs found those sweet little buds there and ran around them in circles, feeling the skin harden beneath my fingers, and then I followed with my mouth, tipping my head down to suck first one, then the other, of the rose-coloured pebbles I had raised.  
  
He did not answer my question immediately, and I grinned. I do love silencing him in that way. I ran my hands down his firm, flat stomach and he sighed in contentment.  
  
My fingers trailed longingly along that tantalising place where his trunk met his pelvis; his muscular abdominal muscles creating the most inviting V-shape that lead to—  
  
I had been looking into his beautiful face, but now I lowered my gaze and my smile became rather lascivious. He was quite stiff.  
  
Well, so was I.  
  
“You did not tell me—what have you been wishing?” I reiterated as my fingers traced that fantastic dip in his skin.   
  
“I have been wishing… I do not want to… I am not demanding…”  
  
“Goodness. The great Sherlock Holmes can’t complete a sentence?” I teased, kissing his sweet mouth again while my fingers teased further down. “Please, sweetheart, tell me,” I begged.  
  
“Your mouth, John. I love it when you kiss me on my lips and on my chest and… my hands and _everywhere_.”  
  
I realised what he wished. “Ah,” I breathed, distracted by his delicate tongue for a moment. “You wish (a kiss) for me (a kiss) to use my mouth…” and I pulled away from his slightly, so I could see into his eyes. “You wish for me to kiss all of you, as you do to me.”  
  
He nodded, his eyes wide and dark. “I know that you have been unsure of that particular act, and I am not complaining—I promise you that I do understand—but I think I have struck on something that will help with any hesitation you might be feeling.”  
  
He moved back away from me the slightest bit and brought what he had been holding behind his back this entire time. I stared at the small, ornately fashioned silver object in surprise.  
  
“Sherlock,” I stammered. “That is Mrs. Hudson’s honey pot.”  
  
“Obviously, John. Highest marks.”  
  
“What do you—” and then I realised exactly what he intended to do with the honey. “You mean to put honey… Oh, God, Sherlock.” My entire body reacted to this.  
  
After that, we did not speak overmuch. He stepped back and seated himself in his chair. It was a low one, and I noted that he had spread his discarded shirt across the seat cushion. “Do not undress,” he instructed. I did not question why. My eyes were fixed on his slender, graceful body as he lounged back now.  
  
God, he was so beautiful and he was so stiff and even though up until then I had been reluctant—or at least unsure—I suddenly found my mouth open of its own accord. He handed me the honey pot.  
  
“How…?” I managed, not able to tear my eyes from his cock.  
  
“However you wish,” he replied a bit breathlessly. He reached behind himself and, carelessly spreading his legs, he deposited a cushion on the carpet. He was now sprawled in a semi-reclined position and his eyes were almost shut. That made up my mind.  
  
I nodded and knelt in front of him. I was still clothed, but due to the warmth had actually been relaxing in just a shirt and vest; I had discarded my waistcoat and my sleeves and collar were unfastened. I impatiently flicked my sleeves up now, freeing my arms halfway up to the elbow, shifting the silver pot—which was shaped like a domed hive and featured a disproportionately large bee at the top—back and forth.   
  
I giggled nervously as he produced a silver spoon that he had easily secreted in his large hand. “This is going to be rather sticky,” I pointed out, feeling a bit unsure.  
  
“That very first time—do you remember?—you instructed me to rub it until I felt very, very nice and rather sticky.”  
  
That broke through the last bit of my reticence.  
  
I do not know if my words will do justice to it all. Holding the delicate pot close to his erect prick, I dipped the spoon in and then carefully drizzled a bit of the sticky golden substance over it.  
  
“Oh!” he remarked.  
  
“Is it all right?”  
  
“It feels rather… odd. But nice.”  
  
“That describes how you make me feel all the time,” I pointed out. “Now, do you have any… that is, is there anything…?”  
  
“Start with your tongue and we will proceed from there.”  
  
I nodded, took a deep breath, and bent forward.  
  
I had kissed Sherlock before—all over. I had kissed every inch of him from crown to foot, many times—once even at his brother’s home when we were staying at Christmastime. I believe I have commented on his fastidious habits and his lack of any sort of offensive odour. That had not changed. I had had my face very close to his prick at times; close enough to be aware of a deeper scent there. Now I deliberately leaned closely over him. My nose brushed the rigid organ, and a very fleeting realisation that I was going to be rather sticky as well flitted through my head.  
  
And then I became aware of that deep scent; that musk—and I suddenly wanted to be surrounded in it. It was the loveliest bits of the most intimate parts of my darling, all concentrated into one place, and it was incredible. Suddenly I realised that it would be fine. It was more than fine. So I extended just the tip of my tongue--  
  
and I _licked_.  
  
“Oh, John,” he sighed. “Please.”  
  
*  
  
It was, I will not deny, challenging—but I like to rise to a challenge. I discovered it trickier than I realised to approach him from an opportune angle. By adjusting myself, however, I finally discovered a position that allowed me the greatest and most comfortable access to him.  
  
Because by then I had discovered that, over and above the honey, my darling was the sweetest, most delicious thing that I had ever had in my mouth.  
  
*  
  
I did as he had done to me—I found that using my hand assisted me in getting him at the correct angle. The other I braced on his thigh to keep my balance. I could feel his leg muscles taut beneath his warm skin as he struggled to keep his hips still.  
  
For that I admit that I was grateful. I knew that taking him fully into my mouth—as deep as I could manage—was absolute heaven to him, but I did not want to choke. He was clearly aware of this and did not wish to press himself upon me too forcibly, but his pleasure and eagerness was making it difficult for him to restrain himself.  
  
I also—and this was something that had not occurred to me—found that my jaw was getting wearied. Why had he not ever mentioned that? I felt myself growing tense, and then I remembered.  
  
Slowly, and making it as wet as I could, I slid my head back until my lips were wrapped around the firm, smooth head of his cock. I wrapped my hand more firmly around the shaft. Then, concentrating on coordinating my movements, I began to simultaneously stroke him up and down—  
  
and to _suck_.  
  
Oh, the glorious sounds he made! He was gasping and sighing and I swear that at one point he giggled a bit out of sheer pleasure as I firmly rubbed him (my saliva had long since washed away most of the sweet sticky honey) and sucked at his head. A thrill ran through my body as I delved the tip of my tongue into his slit and shivered in delight as I detected something other than honey there—it was light and somewhat salty and I realised what that meant and how good it tasted all simultaneously and I doubled my efforts.  
  
I could feel it before he said anything. I had had my hand there on his prick, in just that way, many times, and between the tell-tale tightening of his balls and the slowing of his motion (for despite his best efforts to remain still he had been thrusting up towards me, matching my pace) I knew what was going to happen, and I suddenly was not sure if I was ready—or willing—  
  
“Off!” he gasped, pushing at my shoulder with one hand, and I watched as the lovely white spunk spirted out of his pretty prick as I had seen it do so many times before. I knew to slow my hand, and then to let it go completely still, as the last few throbs ceased. I released him.  
  
I cautiously tipped my head back so I could look at him. His own head was against the back of his chair. His eyes were shut and his mouth was slightly open as he tried to catch his breath. We did not move for a few moments.   
  
Finally, he lifted his head and opened his eyes and gazed down upon me. His smile was sleepy and satisfied.  
  
“Did I do it right?” I inquired facetiously, immensely proud of myself.  
  
“You did not require much instruction after all.” He paused and ran a hand along his thigh. “That was _brilliant_.”  
  
*  
  
I realised as I rose to fetch some water for myself that although I had most certainly been stimulated, I was now somehow—at least for the moment—satiated. I drank a glass of water from the carafe on the sideboard; he rolled his head lazily to watch me.  
  
“Do you want some?” I asked, indicating the glass.  
  
He shook his head and languidly waved an elegant hand over his body. “I need water, but not to drink,” he remarked, laughing. “Mrs. Hudson is going to have a fit over the condition of my shirt. How will we explain _that_?”  
  
“That is simplicity itself. You simply overturned the honey pot whilst reaching for something. I will rinse it out as much as I can.”  
  
“You are so clever, Doctor Watson,” he remarked.  
  
“I am,” I agreed as I headed for my bedroom and the pitcher and basin within. I would need more than one towel.  
  
*  
  
[Sherlock’s inevitable endnote: _I have always been inordinately fond of anything drizzled with honey. May I?_  
  
 _You are an enterprising student and I do love you for it, John._ ]  
  



End file.
